


Furnish the Fuse Unto a Spark

by Isilanna (Betazoa)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, Feeling old, Gratuitous Fan Dance Reference, How Nyota Got Her Groove Back, Not Bothering To Translate Into Klingon Because It's Really Not Important, Rarepair, Rarepair Gre'thor, Secret Symbiont, Trek Rarepair Swap, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betazoa/pseuds/Isilanna
Summary: Nyota attends a gala in honor of the Klingon chancellor’s first visit to Earth, where she unexpectedly meets the young Klingon Ambassador, a Trill by the name of Curzon Dax. She can't understand what a gorgeous young thing like him could want with a middle-aged woman like her...Written for pasty-latina as part of the Trek Rarepair Swap - Round 21





	Furnish the Fuse Unto a Spark

**2295**

The room is far louder than any Fleet gala Nyota’s ever been to before, but this is no mere ship christening or admiral’s retirement party. The Klingon Chancellor’s first visit to Earth is a momentous occasion, and the Federation had gone to every length to make this gala a complete success, which involved a lot of stuffy bureaucrats being explicitly ordered to let their hair down a little in order to put the Klingon delegation at ease.

And they did look at ease, Nyota thought, which perhaps had something to do with the diminishing levels of bloodwine in the barrels stationed throughout the room, definitely a first at a Federation shindig. She’d had a cup of the stuff herself, and toasted to the honored House of the Chancellor himself as he refilled his own mug beside her, delighted at her excellent grasp of their language and her use of the correct honorific from her station to his.

But she needed something a little stronger than bloodwine to get through the next few hours, seeing how bloodwine’s intoxicating effects had little to do with its ABV (which was barely higher than a weak beer), but usually resulted from the vast quantity that was drunk. The imperative for a good Saurian brandy was why she was standing by the bar waiting for the bartender to even noticed she existed. She leaned a little further to be seen beyond the bulk of the portly Bolian administrator beside her, sighing to think of the days when men behind bars tripped over themselves to be the one who got to serve her.

Being 52 had its advantages -- a stable and successful career, decades of treasured memories from each of the adventures she’d been a part of, and the kind of self-assurance that even a great pair of legs couldn’t give you -- but a certain kind of wistfulness for her younger days had set in lately. As she felt the hill beneath her feet start to slope downward, it didn’t seem likely that she’d ever be without the feeling again.

At last the bartender noticed her, and she placed her order with the same dazzling smile that had once made the Prime Oligarch of Vestus III fall to his hands and knees and howl, their culture’s version of a marriage proposal. But the young man who began pouring her drink no more generously than the spec only returned the smile politely, and it was never more obvious than at that moment that her most charming days were behind her. She eyed the man as he twisted a peel of blood orange for garnish, thinking that realistically she was probably the same age as his mother.

She took the drink and with a grateful nod and turned her chair around to watch the party. In one corner, the Federation Ambassador to Betazed was engaged in a very ill-advised drinking competition with an attache to the Klingon delegation. The Federation president was ill at ease watching two Klingons play a friendly game of  _ HoS 'oy' _ , the cracking sound of their impacting skulls ringing out over the general noise of conversation. Even Admiral Komack, now many years retired, had shown up for the occasion, a junior officer solicitously at his side for assistance. She couldn’t help but wonder if Jim would have...

But what was the use in wondering anyway? Who knew if Jim would have ever come to an event like this considering his feelings about the Klingons? It’d been two years since his death, and she’d made as much peace with it as she was ever likely to. Now Monty’s disappearance...that was a different story, and she took a long draw of her drink to numb what that reminiscence always dredged up in her, especially on a night like this.

Monty had always  _ seen _ her. Even at their age, long past the easy admiration of youthful form, she’d never felt invisible around Monty like she did here. He’d always liked her just as she was. Considering the abruptness of his loss, it was probably best for Nyota that they’d always been in very different places in their lives whenever there was the opportunity for something more between them. And now, a year after they’d lost him, Nyota was still reminding herself regularly that she was mourning possibility more than actuality.

She couldn’t regret it though, not even in a place like this where the young and the lovely flitted between each other’s attention spans like bees from flower to flower. Of the ones in Fleet dress uniforms, many of them would make the same choice she had, to put self and career ahead of attachment and family. No matter which bloom they devotedly attended this evening, they’d always fly back to the hive in the morning. She certainly had, time after time.

She couldn’t help but notice as she swiveled slightly on her chair in surveillance that there was one flower in attendance that seemed to smell the sweetest -- or was he a bee? Certainly the young man who was the beau of the ball was no passive blossom, content to sit back and be courted. Instead, he circled the room with confidence and a certain devil-may-care attitude. She knew who he was, of course: Curzon Dax, Federation Ambassador to Qo’noS and the man chiefly credited with the successful signing of the Khitomer Accords.

Dax worked the room like a professional, sliding into and out of conversations seamlessly and leaving everyone charmed in his wake. He chatted and joked and laughed and flirted his way through the crowd until his destination became evident: the bar. Nyota turned around before she could be noticed observing him, although it was hardly as if such a thing was likely.

The first thing she noticed as he and his Klingon companion filled the empty space to her right was that his accent was quite good. She wondered where a Trill had learned to speak Klingon in the first place, before considering that it was even more unlikely that she had learned it many years earlier when the Klingons were still their frequent enemies.

Nyota knew the identity of his companion in an instant: Koloth. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he and his crew had come into conflict with the crew of the Enterprise at Station K-7. He probably didn’t even remember her; she hadn’t been at the bar when the fight had broken out.

_ “Why do you partake of this weak swill instead of the bloodwine?” _ Koloth asked Dax contemptuously. Nyota fought to contain an imperious snort; there was no accord that could make the Klingons less arrogant.

Dax laughed, and several heads in their vicinity turned.  _ “I can get bloodwine on Qo’noS any time, my friend,” _ he said.  _ “But as of yet your people have not deigned to import my favorite poison.” _ He turned to the bartender, who had raced over to attend the charismatic ambassador and was waiting on his order. “Saurian brandy,” he said with a wink, and Nyota swore she saw the man blush.

“Popular tonight,” he mumbled, and began fixing another.

“Cheers,” Dax said as the man handed him his drink, and turned back to Koloth.  _ “Why are you so dour? It’s a party!” _

_ “A party?” _ Koloth asked, mockingly gesturing to the room.  _ “The bloodwine is a passable vintage, but the gach on the buffet is all dead. And where are the firepits with roasting gladst? Why do we not sing songs of the glory of the warriors who came before us? All they do is stand around and talk about themselves!” _

“Humanity’s favorite pastime,” Nyota muttered to herself without thinking about it, and the ambassador turned to her with a curious expression. She determinedly stared into her glass.

The ambassador addressed his companion.  _ “Koloth, look, there is Kadishavan zh’Cha, the man I was telling you about. The one who owns prime hunting grounds on Andor, where they hunt those bulls with the poisonous horns? That would be a most fitting place to journey the path to Kal’Hyah before your wedding to Nijella.” _ Koloth nodded, his eyes gleaming at the prospect.  _ “Go,” _ Dax said, giving him a push.  _ “I’m sure you can negotiate a visit on your own.” _

With a growl that was more friendly than fierce, Koloth strode off in the direction of the Andorian, whom Nyota did not envy in that moment. She drained the last of her drink and wondered how long it would be before the bartender looked at her again so she could order another.

“Another drink for the lady,” Dax spoke up beside her, and she turned to him automatically, blinking in surprise.  _ “I hope you’ll forgive my presumption.” _

After a moment, she said,  _ “He seems more attentive to you than me, so I’ll allow it.” _

Dax grinned at her use of the Klingon language. “Curzon Dax,” he said, inclining his head. “And I won’t ask who you are. There aren’t a lot of humans who can speak Klingon, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t recognize  _ the _ Commander Uhura when she was sitting right beside me.”

She hummed noncommittally, but was inwardly surprised that he knew of her. She was no James Kirk, hero of Earth several times over, or even Spock, the Vulcan who was making decent inroads toward peace with the Romulans after all these years of strife. While she was certainly well-known within the Fleet, her role in their high-profile adventures was always a secondary, that of supporting cast rather than the frontman.

“You know, your guide to  _ Klingon Colloquial _ was instrumental in my early days on Qo’noS.” Nyota raised an eyebrow at him, and accepted her new drink with a nod to the bartender, who appeared to be hoping for another crumb of attention from Dax, in vain. “It really helped me establish myself as more than just some stuffed shirt diplomat like the ones the Federation sent in the past.”

She swirled her drink around idly. “I’m glad someone appreciated it. I got a lot of flack for it back when it was first published.” She looks him dead in the eye. “Turns out a lot of people don’t think an entire chapter for sexual slang is necessary.”

Dax laughed explosively, and she looked away from the intensity of his smile. “Well, you were right! Take my good friend Koloth there; he was behaving like an utter  _ petaQ _ the first time we met, undermining my position in front of the council, so I asked him if the sour look on his face was due to a particularly troublesome bout of  _ kah’laQ-sohk _ .”

Nyota can’t help but giggle at that, covering her mouth with her hand. “You didn’t.” But from the gleam in his blue eyes she could tell he absolutely did. “What did he say to that?”

“Well…” he drew the word out dramatically. “He drew his  _ d’k tahg _ and placed the tip of it right at my throat.” He tapped the spot for emphasis. “And when I didn’t flinch, he threw his head back and laughed.”

“And now he’s invited you to suffer with him in honor of his upcoming nuptials,” she said sardonically. She might know their language and rituals, but she would never understand the Klingons.

Dax seemed too, though. “The greatest honor he could bestow upon me,” he said, a quietly proud tone to his voice.

Hearing it, Nyota cocked her head and looked at him, really  _ looked _ at him then. Truly he was handsome, from his piercing blue eyes and full, ever-grinning lips to the intricate spots that ran from his temple temptingly down into the collar of his shirt.  _ ‘I wonder how far…?’ _ She cut off her licentious train of thought there, hardly needing to speculate sexually on someone who probably looked up to her as a historical figure.

But beneath that pleasing exterior and the irreverent manner, she suspected a hidden wellspring. It was obvious when she considered it; he had to contain more depth than he displayed to the crowd, or a man of his age wouldn’t have been placed in such an politically important position within the Federations fragile new detente. And his appreciation for Klingon tradition and appropriate participation in it was more than many non-native ambassadors would commit to in the line of their duties.

He ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully for a long moment, and as the silence stretched between them, Nyota wondered if he was coming up with a polite way to excuse himself. Instead, he asked, “Would you think me a young idiot if I asked to see you again tonight, after the gala?”

Nyota could only blink at him in surprise for a moment. There she sat -- a middle-aged woman, hair streaked with silver, in the least flattering dress uniform the Fleet has ever churned out during her tenure, no longer the delicate swan she’d once been -- utterly dumbfounded that the seemingly most sought after man at this event was propositioning her.

“Well, of course I would,” she said at last, a smile slowly forming. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’d say no.”

Dax’s grin was incandescent and he leaned slightly closer to her, a distance that would be perceived as a friendly and engaged by a bystander’s perspective, but on her side of his focused gaze clearly meant something more. “I’ve wanted to meet you from the moment I read that chapter. The way you detailed the complexities of something that is still held taboo by so many people, underscoring the importance of sensuality in its appropriate context, I said to myself, this is a woman who has  _ lived _ .”

Nyota huffed out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. She tucked an errant curl back into place and quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re right about that, Dax,” she said. “I certainly have lived quite a bit. And for a good number of years too, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little taken aback by your approach.”

Dax’s brow crinkled, and he appeared perturbed at her admission. How could he possibly be? The gap between them couldn’t be more evident than the way people reacted to them; she as wallpaper, he as an object of fascination and desire.

He shook his head. “I’ve read a good deal about those years you’ve lived, but I can’t fathom what else could have happened in them to make you see yourself this way.”

“People get old, Dax,” Nyota said, realizing with a little sting that she was effectively unselling herself to this attractive man who had sought out her company. But it needed to be said. She knew it, everyone here knew it, he  _ had _ to know it too. “I’m not usually one to self-deprecate, but I’m well aware that I’m not what I once was.” She shrugged as if it did matter, but even more than ever before, it did.

“Nyota, please, call me Curzon,” he said, taking one of her hands in his. Of course he knew her first name without being reminded, he was too charming for his own good. “I don’t look at you and see someone who was  _ once _ lovely and impressive and desirable. I see someone who is those things. Those years aren’t behind you, they’re within you. Who you were, you  _ still _ are. And who you are fascinates me. I won’t pretend to promise more than a moment stolen in time, but I hope you’ll steal it with me.”

Nyota was stunned into silence, more convinced than before that there was so much below the surface of this man that he didn’t commonly share. After a moment of contemplating his entirely earnest face -- and it was a good look on him -- she laughed. “You know too much for a young buck,” she said, sliding her hand out of his.

“I’m not as young as I look,” he said with a smirk and a gleam in his eye. She rolled her eyes; he was probably one of those that thought being 30 meant he was old. “Until tonight?”

She tapped a command into her wrist communicator and then grabbed his hand to touch her wristband to his, transferring the access key. He winked boyishly and she turned away, suppressing a girlish grin.

Nyota thought he had left without further ado, but a chill ran down her spine when he leaned in to whisper a parting remark in her ear. “You know, I once heard a remarkable story about a fan dance that seduced men away from their posts. I’d love to see it.”

“Perhaps you will,” she said quietly enough that only the orange peel at the bottom of her glass could hear it. And when he slipped into her quarters that night, he showed her how far down those spots really went, and she proved his point that venerable was every bit as potent as youthful.

**Author's Note:**

> Written of an era when the Trill still kept their greatest secret. Who would understand the deceptive nature of time passing better than a Joined Trill? For those wondering, Nyota is 52 and Curzon is 30 (but Dax is 272).
> 
> Title is from a line in Emily Dickinson's poem, A Man may make a Remark.
> 
> Feel free to check out my blog or connect with me at isilannafic.tumblr.com!


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